Connections
by Corrupting A Moron
Summary: Is Crawford really such a bad guy? What life experiences and thoughts does Clarice have that result in her turning to Lecter? Predominantly post Silence of the Lambs. Starts off as a series of partially connected vignettes before highlighting the final days between Crawford and Starling. Follows book canon.
1. Chapter 1

"Look, we have no other option. If you have any ideas, you better use them; Behavioral Science is useless to the FBI if it can't catch psychos. Use Lecter if you have to. It helped catch Dolarhyde last time"

Jack Crawford sighed heavily. "Will came out of that looking like a Picasso. There is no chance in hell he will ever work for me or the FBI again."

"Send someone else in. You go in."

"He won't talk to me. He won't talk to Bloom. He hasn't spoken to Chilton for years. There's no one he'll talk to."

Crawford's agitation was apparent; his voice had gotten slightly louder at the start of each statement.

"You had better think long and hard about who he _WILL_ talk to, or think of some other way to solve this case, otherwise you won't be head of Behavioral Science anymore."

"Sir, without me, Behavioural Science will cease to exist..."

"I'm glad we're on the same page then."

Crawford knew Will Graham wouldn't speak to Lecter ever again; it was currently looking like Will wouldn't speak to _him_ ever again, either. There was a slight chance Lecter would speak to a student; from what Chilton and Bloom had told him, Lecter always responded to serious correspondence from psychiatric students in fields unrelated to his case. It was possible that Lecter could be goaded into assisting in the Buffalo Bill case if he was allowed to take the lead. Crawford ignored the small voice in his head telling him that enlisting help from the student body was a bad idea.


	2. Chapter 2

Crawford looked at the back of his office door, which seemed to still be vibrating from the fierce manner in which Starling had shut it. He sighed, heavily. He had never discussed any of his work with Bella, but it was still nice to have someone to go home to in the evenings, someone to silently shoulder the load with him, just by being there. He missed her deeply.

Rotating slowly in his chair, Crawford's eyes rested on various items around his office, seeing but not seeing. Looking for patterns within yourself, he decided, was not only unrewarding, but also a little confronting.

Starling's anger was justified; she was unused to being curtailed. She was a bright spark; finishing college in the minimum required timeframe, pushing through her FBI training with minimal fuss, her success in catching Buffalo Bill, even her pistol combat training; Brigham had informed him that Starling had the potential to become the inter agency combat pistol champion. Starling's problem was that she didn't kiss ass when required. Crawford thought that this was both her strongest and weakest characteristic: her integrity.

Unfortunately, Starling didn't seem to understand that politics and not Integrity (despite the moniker) was required to do this job, that it wasn't just about saving lives. That sometimes, it was about kissing ass and saying the right things to the right people. She couldn't yet see that getting the jump on Krendler had made him an enemy for life. Crawford didn't have the power to shield her career from his poison.

Why did he care? Why should he care that some junior field agent was never going to get where she wanted to be? As much as he wanted to, Jack Crawford was unable to distance himself from Starling. Her ambition and willingness to work for a goal was refreshing. He had not seen someone so bright, so able to make intuitive leaps, so suited to Behavioral Science since Will Graham.

Graham lost the spark after Lecter. Crawford didn't blame him for it; after all, when a madman who had posed as a friend guts you from behind, a person can lose perspective. Or gain it, depending on one's guiding life values.

What it boiled down to was that Crawford wanted to see Starling succeed. He knew she had no people. Her success in the Buffalo Bill had made him proud - he had never said so to her, but he felt it none the less. When he held her to him and kissed her forehead, she was his favorite child, all grown up. She didn't need him at all; hell, she had barely needed him during the case. The only dampener in it all was Lecter's escape. Starling didn't seem to want to believe that Lecter would harm her; it was something they had never seen eye to eye on. Lecter was as dangerous as a cut snake, and while he was out there, there was a chance that he would go after Starling.

Lecter was an unpredictable animal. Starling seemed to think that she could predict him. Crawford couldn't fathom this confidence; perhaps she believed she could get inside his head and catch him. Dangerous waters though. Having never been burnt, Starling wouldn't be able to see the smoke that signaled danger.


	3. Chapter 3

Out on the range, Starling was able to think clearly. Her movements were automatic. Breathe in. Aim. Squeeze. Breathe out. Repeat. After five hundred or so rounds, when her arms were sufficiently fatigued and she had a dull headache from the pressure of the earmuffs, she moved to the safety zone and prepared to disassemble and wipe down her firearm. She was able to think, now, without all the anger coursing through her veins, throbbing in her temple, making her breathe hard. She could lucidly dissect and decipher her current situation.

Two years. It didn't seem like a lot of time. You couldn't finish a university degree in two years. Most trade apprenticeships were longer than two years. Most agents were done with fieldwork after two years. They were generally on track to their target careers. Not Starling, though. Assigned to Clint Pearsall. On loan for more wire taps and warrants.

Not that Mr. Pearsall was a bad guy. He was a meticulous, by the book sort of agent. He just wasn't into profiling or Behavioral Science. His department wasn't where she wanted to be.

Starling had always wanted a spot in Behavioral Science. After Jack Crawford gave his talk at the University, it was the only career path she wanted to chase. The challenge of being in someone else's shoes for the greater good had spurred her on. She wanted to get into someone's head, find out the why's. Starling wasn't really interested in the what, or the how, or even the when. She wanted to know why, and the only way to know why was to step into another person's pair of shoes and walk around in them.

She had only expected to do field work for a year or so - after all, she did have significant forensics, despite the limited squad work. Maybe it wasn't Crawford's fault. Crawford had always seemed in control in the past though. Maybe she shouldn't have yelled at him before, in his office.

Starling was walking quickly back to Crawford's office. She wanted to apologize to him for ranting, and essentially for being an ass. She was reasonably sure that Crawford wanted her in Behavioral Science. If he didn't, why would he send her to Lecter? Surely that had been a test to see how well she could cope; to see if she really did scare easy. Surely he hadn't wanted to see her fail, had he?

As she approached his office door, she saw that it was ajar. She paused.

"Dammit Jack, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times - stop requesting Starling! You aren't going to get her; you can't have her. You don't have any say in this matter."

"Why waste a perfectly good agent on grunt work then? She's proven herself in the field. She's proven that she belongs in Behavioral Science," Jack's voice was raised. "Don't give her to me if you can't; I get the shit fight that's going on. At least promote her; she's a good agent. Don't fuck with her."

"Don't tell me what to do and what not to do, Jack. This is beyond your control." The other agent's voice was coming closer to the door. Starling retreated back around the corner, out of sight.

"With all due respect director…" Jack Crawford did not sound at all respectful.

"This conversation is over!" with that, the door jerked open and the sound of footsteps moved away from Starling. The director obviously didn't think Jack Crawford was being all that respectful, either.

Starling decided now probably wasn't the best time to talk to Mr. Crawford.

Later that evening, on the way home, Starling thought about the sacrifices that Mr. Crawford had made for her over the years. It hadn't seemed like much at the time, the odd assignments that Mr. Crawford had managed to flick her way. He may not have done it by the books, but she had got good results for him. Where was the harm? Every time, they had got their man. In light of the bullshit he was up against now, it didn't seem fair. The Bureau got accolades; Mr. Crawford got chewed out, and she was back doing grunt work for Mr. Pearsall.

If Jack Crawford did that best that he knew how to do with the limitations he had, and her daddy did the best that he could, then she would do her best as well. She would be the best field agent that she could be, until the folks up on top of the food chain pulled their heads out of their asses and saw what they were missing out on.


	4. Chapter 4

Jack Crawford lay awake at night, thinking. He did this often, now, in the silence of his bedroom. Having no noise could seem deafening at times. He was mainly consumed with career and family. If he had given up his career, what would life have been like? Tonight, his thoughts drifted towards children. Specifically, his children, or lack of. He believed that he would have been a good father. He would have made time for his child. They had lost one, once. In the fourth month of Bella's pregnancy, she had woken up in the middle of the night with what seemed like severe menstrual cramps. The bleeding had started almost immediately - he had stood to the side, watching helplessly as she writhed on the bed, panting and clutching at her abdomen. By the time the clinic was open, it was too late. They said there wasn't much they could have done to save it. That was no consolation though. Bella had mourned for a long time – her initial physical pain had given way to feelings of inadequacy. He had been unable to shield or protect her, his attempts to console her were brushed aside, and that left him feeling impotent. He was never sure if he was enough for her. She had seemed inconsolable at the time, and he had to withdraw from her, and give her space to grieve, unsure of what else to do. He watched her suffering from a distance, not quite able to numb his own pain. He had tried to avoid it, that desolate, empty feeling, and with Bella pushing him away, he found that the only way he could forget was to immerse himself in work.

It was nearly six months before she accepted his attentions again; he thought the timing must have been significant to her. They were at a beach house he had rented for them. Bella always loved the seaside; she loved to follow the tide out in the morning, picking up and examining the little creatures exposed by the retreating tide. While Jack had not expected her to exhibit this behavior, he did hope that the vacation would be able to pull her from her reverie. She had been delighted with his thoughtfulness, and had allowed him to treat her to a candlelit dinner. They made love that night, the first time since the miscarriage. She had wept afterwards, and he had felt crushed at his failure to safeguard her emotions, to provide her with emotional security.

Wanting to keep their experience private, he had suggested that they attend a counselor instead of a support group. Bella had wanted someone experienced in perinatal loss. They settled on a psychiatrist a little way out of town. Jack had misgivings about the doctor as soon as he stepped foot in to the waiting room. The white walls and pale linoleum had provided little comfort to him. Jack's misgivings were confirmed when the doctor callously told them that miscarriages happen all the time, that sometimes "These things just happen," and they would "get over it soon". The doctor had downplayed both their dead child and their raw feelings. The doctor's failure to provide reasons and answers irritated Jack; the insensitivity he managed to convey whilst simultaneously crushing Bella's dreams were infuriating.

Jack never wanted to put Bella into that situation again, and risk subjecting to her to this pain and suffering. They had not tried for another child.

He could see, in the years that followed, that this may not have been the best decision. While she was fine at home, gardening or doing other chores that she enjoyed, when they were out, she always looked longingly at the children playing near them. He had discovered the extent of her yearning, when, one day, he had found her in her car, weeping. He had managed to escape from work early, and meaning to surprise her with flowers and chocolates, found that she was not at home. Mentally chastising himself for expecting her to be there, he drove to each of her favorite haunts, meaning to find her and take her for coffee, or a late lunch, if she hadn't eaten. He found her vehicle at the local grocery store, and quickly exiting his Impala, entered the grocers to find her. He was puzzled when he couldn't see her in the store. It wasn't a particularly large store, and he had expected to locate her quite quickly. He headed towards her car, and was distressed to see her slumped form behind the steering wheel. He had opened the door, ready to render assistance, and was shocked by her appearance. Her usual neatly applied makeup was streaked, and her eyes were bloodshot. He had knelt beside her and gathered her to him. It had taken many soft kisses and reassurances to reduce her sobbing so that he could drive her home and put her to bed. It was days before she had confided the reason for her tears. He had accompanied her on as many outings as possible after this; she seemed to gain comfort from his presence.

* * *

Jack was sitting at the counter of the local sports bar, waiting for Mike Delaney to show up. Mike had left the Bureau approximately four years ago. He had moved into local law enforcement; he claimed the hours were better, even if the pay left a little something to be desired.

A heavyset man in a denim shirt and cowboy boots approached the bar. "Sorry I'm late."

"You're two down." Jack Crawford motioned to the two beers sitting in front of the empty stool beside him. The pair of them sat in amicable silence, drinking and eating salted peanuts from the bowl on the bar.

Jack reflected on his time within the FBI. The Watergate scandal had taken up much of his time in the '70s. By the time he was done with that mess, he had emerged into a new workforce where he had to deal with _lady_ special agents. He hadn't really known how to react to _that_. He had asked a female special agent to file a few memos for him once, and this had resulted in a feminist browbeating that he hadn't particularly cared for. He was careful to file his own memos after that.

Jack had seen a wave of change when the computing era had started. It was a subtle transition that didn't seem like it would take hold at the time. He remembered commenting to Bella that a few of the senior guys at the office were upset that their office space was 'requisitioned' for the new computer, and that no machine would ever replace man. She had laughed and called him old fashioned. Now, it seemed, no one could get past this computing menace. The FBI wanted everyone to be computer trained and ready.

His thoughts about Bella brought him back to the bar, and with whom he was sitting. Mike had three kids, a son who was in his late twenties, a daughter in her early twenties and a daughter in her late teens. His wife worked part time at the local hair salon.

"How's Tessa?" Crawford had just finished his beer and was motioning to the barman for another round.

"She's holding up well. Wasn't happy when Jenny up and moved in with her boyfriend. Wanted them to get married first. I can't see a problem either way, so long as she's happy. Plus it saves me a pretty penny, you know what I mean?" Jack grunted. He couldn't see what Mike meant. He would not have skimped on his daughter's wedding. "Besides, Jenny's a smart girl; she knows what she's doing. She's only got a year before graduation. Plus she's already getting job offers. She'll do all right."

"And work? You guys have to deal with this internet business?" Jack frowned. He wasn't sure the smaller agencies needed the added pain of a computing network. They already had enough trouble communicating as it was.

"Yup. We need to keep in line with you guys. The Department of Justice wants all law enforcement agencies to upgrade to a federally connected computer system."

Jack Crawford decided he didn't find Mike as interesting as he used to. He found it difficult to relate to the man. They could talk about more when he was still in the FBI. Jack didn't like talking about family matters since Bella passed on. He could only provide monosyllabic grunts when Mike talked about the trials and tribulations of his daughters. His dislike of their choice of boyfriends, or the time one of them had come home with a tattoo. He found himself thinking about Bella at these times the most, of how she would have reacted to the childish audacity, that desire to find and expose limits.

Jack's attention continued to drift, and he was now imagining scenarios. His pleasure at hearing 'dadda' the first time. His wife's tears as she waved goodbye to his child on the first day of school. Scaring the sense into the boy that was taking his daughter to prom night. Comforting her, wiping her tears away after her heart was broken. Walking her down the aisle. He sighed, loudly. "Jack. Hey earth to Jack. You still there, buddy?" Mike was still waffling on about something or other.

Jack grunted affirmatively. "Another round, Mike?"


	5. Chapter 5

The final round of the inter service pistol league was being held at an indoor range in Ashburn, Virginia. The choice of an indoor range was something of a novelty; the meet directors had wanted to challenge the shooters, and they had decided a venue change would do the trick quite well.

The FBI team, captained by Starling and coached by Brigham, had managed to scrape into the finals after one of the other teams had some equipment failure, resulting in the team withdrawing from the competition. The FBI team was relatively green, as two of the previous team members were too busy to participate this year. The team was ranked third behind both the hostage rescue team and the BAFT team. Starling's team was marginally ahead of the DEA squad, who was snapping at their heels at fourth place.

There had been no small amount of ribbing between the field outfits regarding the shooting ability of the FBI; they considered the Federal agents to be desk jockeys, unable to draw and fire outside of training exercises. The fact that their team had managed to come second overall the previous year was a major source of chagrin.

Starling had worked hard to get to where she was; the first inter-service pistol championship win had not been a fluke, despite what the guys from the Hostage Rescue team had said. While loading her magazines, Starling reflected on the lead up to the previous final. Her captain had provided advice to calm the nerves; he had told her to remain focused on her foresight, and make sure she had proper aim on her target before squeezing off the next round. With good technique came speed. Just before he had finished providing his advice, a particularly _alpha_ looking fellow had rudely interrupted them. "People with beginner's luck don't need shooting advice," he had drawled. "They need a rabbit's foot to kiss, or a Buddha's belly to rub." With that, he had lifted his shirt and presented his distended abdomen for caressing. The captain had pushed him away, suggesting that if he kept such behavior up, sexual harassment charges would come his way sooner rather than later. His parting reply of "You'd better watch your back, Starling," had left no time for response. Starling had thought to herself that she always watched her back, because there wasn't always someone to watch it for you. Now, lining up for her second final, she felt confident in her abilities. The initial rounds had gone well for her, and both her consistency and accuracy during practice had been high.

After a final team pep talk from Brigham, the team checked their ammunition and pistols. They were ready to go before the call for the final round line up came over the PA.

After they lined up, during the final seconds before the shooting was to begin, Starling's eyelids lowered a fraction and her lips pursed slightly. Stillness fell over the range, as the shooters waited for the signal to go. In the quiet, the hum of the mechanical turner could be heard as it engaged. Time stretched out, and as the target rotated into view, a volley of gunshots exploded.

"Nice work, Starling."

Starling released the magazine into her hand, pocketed it and pulled back the slide to eject the last round. Brigham caught the bullet as a reflex action. She turned to Brigham, game face still on, pointed her pistol down range, and pulled the trigger. Hammer down.

"We'll see when the points have been tallied." Starling was still facing Brigham.

Brigham broke out into a smile. It was always business first with her. Always had been, as long as he had known her. He didn't like the politics of governmental agencies. He felt that it reflected on him when their previous win was put down to luck, suggesting that he was a counterproductive coach; when translated out into the field, that sort of bullshit cost lives. When dealing with live ammunition and unstable criminals, you really needed to have faith in your team, no matter where they came from. While he was musing, the points tally was coming over the PA. Points were read out in reverse; lowest to highest.

They had just read out the runner up in the individuals section of the competition - it wasn't Starling. "Ahhh Fuck!" This gem came from the Hostage Rescue crew. Runners up.

"Hey you! Oakley!"

Brigham's face lit up. He turned towards the Hostage Rescue team. He was delighted with their anger.

"Fluke, hey? You Velcro Cowboys wouldn't know good shooting if it hit you square between the eyes."

"Screw you, Brigham. We were talking to Poison Oakley there." Turning towards Starling, Cowboy 1 shouted, "You might be good on the range, Poison Oakley, but how far does that get you go in the real world? Found that seat in Behavioral Science yet?"

The FBI team shuffled about and looked down at their feet. No one said anything. Starling slowly turned towards the Hostage Rescue crew. Her face was drawn, and as she drew a breath to reply, Brigham's hard shoulder pushed her aside as he strode towards the offending officer. Starling thought he was going to punch the man, but he surprised her. Flashing a feral grin to the FBI team, Brigham leaned in and whispered something into his ear. Cowboy 1's face dropped, then went white. He dropped his piece into his bag without wiping it down and left quickly. Brigham turned back to the team and gave a bright, cheery two thumbs up.

* * *

Brigham had picked Starling up for the additional practice time she was putting in at the range; it only made sense that they eat together after. It had become something of a ritual between the two of them. They frequently ate together when time allowed; Brigham liked Starling's company and Starling liked not being alone.

They had started off by going to convenient diners which were both open late and located between Quantico and Starling's apartment in Arlington. They had discovered that only a few of them had both the dishes that Brigham and Starling preferred, so, as a compromise, they alternated between a classic diner that served homemade chili's and stews, a pizzeria, and a burger and steak joint. Luckily, all three of these places had a variety of homemade pies, and the one that served stew also had a brilliant cornbread accompaniment.

"Hey John, don't forget to get me some skate tape from your stash – I ran out, and I'm due for some. Probably some resin, too, if you have any. I know you bought a heap last time." They had placed an order on the way in, and were arranging themselves into a booth by the window.

"No probs. You know, when I bought all that tape from the skate shop, the guy behind the counter thought I had a screw loose 'cause everyone else in the store was under the age of fifteen. Or at least they looked it, anyway. Hope he didn't think I was some sorta perv."

"You are a perv." Starling said this with a grin. "But a nice perv. What do you have going on this weekend?" The waitress interrupted them with the drinks order. They both nodded their thanks, and Brigham turned back to Starling.

"Bit of this, and a bit of that. Might go to a dance party with a buddy who is back from the sand pit. You?" Brigham broke eye contact to glance at a SUV that had pulled into the parking lot near his own car.

"Usual. Might go into work to use the gym. It'll give me a chance to catch up on some paperwork as well. Been flat out these past few weeks. Don't think that shooting meet helped much. Coupla hours here and there should sort it out."

"You work too hard."

"And you don't work hard enough."

They broke off their banter as the pizzas they had ordered earlier were brought to the table. A silence settled as they busied themselves with the food. While they were eating, John looked out the window. This pleasant interaction with a beautiful woman really felt… homey. He looked back to Starling, watching her devour her meal. He liked that she was comfortable around him. Women he had dated in the past always pretended things. Pretended they were interested in his hobbies. Pretended that they weren't hungry after a miniature sized salad. Pretended that they didn't mind the long hours he worked. Starling wasn't like that. She worked the same hours as he did, and they were friendly enough to share hobbies, habits, meals and jokes. Starling was the sort of girl you could keep forever.

"What do you want done with you after you die?"

Starling looked up from her slice of pizza, eyes narrowing. The question was both unexpected, and Starling thought, a little inappropriate.

Brigham stumbled on hastily, feeling awkward for starting this line of conversation. "What I meant was, in this line of work, there is always the possibility of death... I'd like to be laid out in my Marine dress blues..." Brigham could hear the blood whooshing in his head. "Clarice?"

Starling was looking in John Brigham's direction with cold, steely eyes. She was not, in fact, looking at him; she seemed to be staring through him, boring holes directly into his soul.

John Brigham plunged. "Would you be willing to take this to the next level?"

Starling frowned. Brigham continued rapidly. "We get along fine, and I'm not seeing anyone at the moment, and you're not seeing anyone at the moment," the last part came fast and breathless. "And I really like you."

Starling opened her mouth. It had suddenly become unusually dry. She tried to speak but all that came out was a click. Starling closed her mouth, swallowed around a thick tongue and tried again.

"John." She had managed to breathe his name out. She paused, and Brigham looked at her expectantly. "I don't think..." Starling stopped the sentence short, the frown from earlier still on her face. Once, during an argument with Ardelia, Starling had opened her rebuttal with "I don't think…" Ardelia had jumped on it, her response a few decibels short of shouting and her housing project patois thick.

"_You don't think? You don't think_? That's what's wrong with ya gurl! Why don'cha think? You don't deserve to have an argument if you don't think!"

Ever since that day, Starling had tried hard to remove it from her speech pattern, although in times of stress, it still crept in. She shook her head. "Let me rephrase that. I like you, John, I really do. But I think that it wouldn't work, between you and me. You're like a brother to me, and it would just feel… Wrong."

"Oh." It was the saddest 'Oh' that Starling had heard in a very long time.


	6. Chapter 6

There was quiet in the car on the way back from the drug auction. Starling had successfully secured herself a second-hand, completely refurbished 1988 Rousch Mustang, and arranged to pick it up from the local DEA office in a week's time.

* * *

This course of action had been set off approximately a month ago, when Starling's Pinto started stalling while she was driving. She had mentioned to Brigham in passing that she thought that her car was on its last legs, so he suggested that she peruse the government auctions for another, as this would save her from trolling the classified in the paper and wasting her weekends answering personal adverts. When she asked Crawford if he thought these auctions were the real deal, he confirmed that provided you went into a second-hand sale with an idea what you wanted, and knew a bit about that vehicle, not only would you _not_ get fleeced, you could potentially also get a good bargain. He had checked the system and found a drug auction coming up in the tri-state area which would probably have a reasonable selection of confiscated cars. He suggested to her that depending on what sort of vehicle she wanted, an auction was as good a place as any to start.

Starling decided that she was sick of driving around in something gutless. She had asked some friends for opinions as to what she should upgrade to, and she had garnered responses ranging from, "You only need something that will get you from A to B, so small and cheap is fine," or "anything, as long as it's red" to "something you can take off road or vacation in." Needless to say, she didn't feel any of those suggestions matched what she really wanted. Small hatchbacks were not going to cut it for her anymore, and her days of vacationing around America were a long way off. On a government salary, however, she had to reign in her expectations, and while the Pinto held sentimental value, she wanted something more powerful, and perhaps slightly more modern. She wanted to put her foot down, and have instantaneous response. The more she thought about it, the more appealing Mr. Crawford's drug auction became. The auction was probably a great place for picking up a racer. A lot of those vehicles would have been 'pimped' for performance or show, and it was more likely than not that a few of the confiscated vehicles' previous owners were fanatics who either restored their vehicles to factory specifications or had obsessively kept their rides fastidiously clean.

Starling wanted to see if she liked the feel of being behind the wheel of something with real horsepower, raw and powerful. There were a few car nuts at the office, and from them she had found out that Jim from the fraud department had once turned up at work with a mint '70s Mustang. Further investigation revealed that this vehicle actually belonged to Jim's father, and was a genuine, mint condition 1970 Mach 1 Mustang - not a show vehicle, but a Sunday cruiser.

After nearly a week of negotiating with Jim, Starling had managed to arrange to have a drive of the vehicle, with Jim present, of course. In the end, it had cost Starling dinner on a weekend, time, date and location to be confirmed. Starling had initially offered to assist Jim in some fraud cases; however, his constant rejections had required that she up the ante. Her suggestion of taking over one of his student presentation seminars (including paperwork) had spurred some interest; when her last bid of two student presentation seminars was refused, Starling exasperatedly asked what it would take to get a drive in the Mustang. Starling was very specific about the conditions surrounding said dinner; it wasn't a date, and was never going to be a date. It could be on a Saturday, provided it did not impinge on anything else in her life. She had a feeling that Jim was going to be very difficult to dissuade from the idea of wooing her during the course of the evening, despite her strict limitations on the night's proposed activities.

Jim's ploy to have a solid block of non-work hours to court Starling became very apparent when she met his father, Jim senior, or as he preferred to be called, Dash. Dash had been delighted that she was showing interest in his pride and joy, and was more than happy to let her have a drive. He even gave her his phone number, and asked her to call him the next time she wanted to have a drive in the Mustang. Dash had gone on to explain the acquisition of the muscle car, and that through foresight and patience, he managed to retain a piece of American history.

"So Dash, how exactly did you manage to buy this beauty? Did you buy her off the shelf?" Starling was admiring the chrome trim and bonnet scoop as she was speaking.

"Nah, didn't have the money to buy this baby from the factory. Plus the wife would have wanted to put kiddie seats in the back, and take it to church on Sundays…" he paused to scratch his head and glance at Jim, who was standing a few cars away, looking disinterested. "Better this way. She woulda put dings in it and the kids would have put gum on the seats." Starling suppressed the urge to smile. "Naw, I picked it up in '79. Do you remember when the price of gasoline went through the roof?" Starling shook her head. "Probably not, you would have still been a baby then. That was when that – what did the papers call it? That's it, the energy crisis, the papers called it. All I know is the price of fuel went through the roof, and the old girl's a bit thirsty, see, and when the price of gasoline went up, everyone started offloading these babies for a song. Down-sizing, they called it. I called it a waste of time. They still had to buy new cars, didn't they? Anyway, I already had a family wagon, and the wife let me buy this, provided I didn't drive it too much, and now everyone else is wishing they had my brains." Dash stopped stroking the hood and tapped at his temple with is index finger. Starling smiled. She had been nodding her head along with his story, and had a sneaking suspicion that 'Dash' had earned his moniker soon after purchasing the 'Stang, so she asked him if this was the case.

"Oh absolutely! See, my buddies thought I was a fool to waste my money on this thing. They wanted to see her in action, so we came out here, pretty much where were standin' now, so I could prove to 'em that she was worth it. I smoked the pants off those guys like you wouldn't believe! They said they never seen a dash like that before, and somehow the name stuck. Anyways, enough yappin, let's get you ready for a drive."

Dash explained the basics of the Mustang to Starling, and did a few ¼ mile runs so she could see it in action before she had a run herself. Dash had left the engine running and let her get in the driver's seat. Once she adjusted the seat and mirrors, she noticed the deep growling rumble of the engine reverberating deep in her chest. Starling gently tapped the accelerator while the car was in neutral, and the responding snarl was almost animalistic. She had never been in control of so much power before. Dash leaned in the driver's window and gave her some final instructions. Her first quarter mile was tentative, and had room for improvement. By her fifth, she was starting to get a feel for the Mustang. By her ninth, she managed to minimize visibility up the entire street and leave smoking rubber on the tarmac. Dash commented that it was probably a good time to stop, as he thought that she may finish her next quarter mile and just keep driving.

While the chance of a full sized, factory performance Mustang was probably just within financial reach, provided, of course, that there was one available at the auction, Starling felt that she really didn't need the added attention of a true muscle car on her daily commute.

Starling spent the next few weeks researching Mustangs and other performance vehicles. Her sentimentality kept her looking for an equine named ride; her patriotism meant she was limited to the American automobile market. She wasn't keen on anything turbo charged as the idea of turbo lag put her off. Starling was tempted by the Dodge Shelby Chargers, however it was the realization that the some of the Mustangs were based on a Pinto body really sold Starling. Sadly, though, the determining end factor was going to be a matter of what was available at the auction; you couldn't buy something that wasn't there, and while she had whittled the options down to what she wanted, they did say that beggars can't be choosers.

A week and a half out from the auction, her Pinto finally died. It had refused to start after work, and the AAA mechanic had declared it dead and beyond help. Luckily Ardelia was still at work, so she was able to get a ride home. With less than ten days until the auction, Starling was not concerned about the Pinto dying. She commuted into work daily with Ardelia, which suited both of them. It was nice to have a convenient excuse to leave the office on time for once. Had it been any longer, Starling would have been irritated by the loss of independence, but as it was a short period of time, it felt more like a holiday to her. It was not convenient, however, when Brigham breezed past her cubicle on Thursday morning a few days after the Pinto died and declared that he would not be able to pick her up for pistol practice on account of him having a date afterwards.

"I understand you have a date John, but you knew my car had died. You've never had dates on the same day as training before. What gives?" Starling was more confused than anything else. Why would Brigham forget about her when she most needed him to help her out?

"Ummm, yeah, she insisted that was the only time she was available." He looked immensely sheepish, and refused to provide any eye contact with Starling. "Anyways, gotta go, things to do." Starling watched his rapidly retreating back, her previous chain of thought broken.

Thursday afternoon before the auction found Starling desperately calling around bus companies, trying to work out the quickest bus route to get to the sale yard. Her arrangement with Ardelia had fallen through, much to her disgust, due to 'guy troubles'. All she had wanted was a lend of her car. Surely 'guy troubles didn't impact on that? Luckily, she had refused to allow Ardelia to drive her to there, otherwise she would have been really angry. How agreements could be broken on account of 'guy troubles' was beyond her. She had enquired about the price of a taxi cab, and a rental vehicle. Both were not within her budget. She had slammed her fist into her desktop in frustration, causing people in other cubicles to peer around and frown at her. She blew a wisp of hair out of her eye, muttering something about Brigham being a dickhead. She was not about to ask him for a ride. None of the bus routes would get her there in time for the start of the auction, meaning that she would have to arrive the night before and stay locally. Why was it that shit only rained down on you when you were already in a hole?

Crawford had been on his way to the photocopier when he passed Starling's desk. She had been hunched over a notepad, phone pressed to her ear, madly scribbling something onto it while simultaneously declaring that the times were no good for her. After making his copies, he noticed that a few of the agents that normally sat near Starling were milling around the office, in the lunch room and by the water cooler. He wanted to know why they weren't at their desks, working. It turned out that they did not like being disrupted by banging and raised voices, and that the source of this disruption was Starling. Making his way back to his office, he wondered if it had anything to do with her car troubles. He hadn't seen her Pinto in the parking lot lately, so it must have died. He made a decision and called her into his office.

"Starling, are you aware your demeanor has impacted your colleagues and affected the mood of the office?"

Starling, not being in the best of moods, let loose a blast of air from both her nostrils and mouth, puffing her cheeks out a little in the process. She replied and crossed her arms simultaneously. "No sir, I wasn't aware of that."

She still hadn't managed to make the public transport system work for her, and had mentally cursed both John and Ardelia to hell. She was preparing to send Jack Crawford there as well, when he responded.

"Clarice, just because you are having a bad day, doesn't mean you can rant and carry on at your desk like that."

"Well sir, I was going to go out to shoot something, but that would have meant I couldn't follow up on a few things."

"Is this about your car? Has it finally died?"

Starling huffed again and tried to surreptitiously check her watch. This was eating into her bus scheduling time. "Yes, it kicked the bucket last week. I've been getting rides in with Delia."

"That's obviously not the reason you are so desperate to get out of my office. Out with it, Starling, why are you being so unusually disruptive today?"

Starling cast her eyes around the office. She didn't want to tell Mr. Crawford. It would be like admitting defeat. When her eyes finally met his, she could tell by his stern face that silence on the matter would not bode well for her. "I'm having trouble getting to the auction on time."

Crawford drew a big breath. So that was the issue. She must have been swearing because she couldn't get the buses to work for her. It would have been nearly impossible to do so; the car yards were well out of town on a large estate, so they could keep impounded vehicles there without disrupting anyone. The question was, should he offer her a ride? How would it look to someone from the outside? Probably not good. But who needed to know but the two of them? Besides, it wasn't as if he was _doing_ anything. He was just driving her to a car auction, for Christ's sake. He could give her some tips on auctioning on the way there. That way, he knew that she wouldn't get fleeced.

"I can give you a lift if you need one, Starling."

* * *

Crawford broke the silence in the car. "I never did get around to congratulating you for your fine shooting effort the other week."

"Thank you Mr. Crawford. The team did quite well. And John was a great help." Starling smiled as she turned towards Crawford. He was driving sedately again. Starling had noticed this odd, out of character behavior a few years ago. Obviously it wasn't an issue when Jeff was driving, but she noticed a difference between his driving while she was in the car, and his driving when he was alone. Starling couldn't understand it. Jack Crawford was old, but he wasn't senile. There was no reason for him to drive so slowly. Once, on what must have been a particularly bad day, she watched as Mr. Crawford very nearly went sideways on the way out of Quantico. She remembered it because the marine that was manning that particular checkpoint had commented to her that if it wasn't for his ranking, he would be required to report such reckless driving. She had posed the question to Ardelia, who had cryptically responded with "You're more careful with the ones you care about."

Starling contemplated the development of their relationship. She certainly felt a shift in _his_ behavior towards her – it had happened as she got off the plane at the National Airport in Washington, after her red-eye flight from Columbus, Ohio. She had never expected Jack Crawford to _hug_ her. After graduation, however, she found herself going to him for advice on the odd occasion. Small stuff at first, mainly work related, as most graduates did, and he had always made time for her, but this had evolved through time as his advice changed from direct answers to her questions to a more reasoning method of answering; he had started to guide her with his own questions, and prompt her towards an answer. She did not find this intrusive, and perhaps enjoyed the interactions just a little bit.

"I haven't seen John about lately. He hasn't been reassigned; I would know if he had. Doesn't he usually eat with you?"

Shit. It was in the open now, and she had to address it. "Yeah, he normally eats lunch with me, but we're having a bit of down time."

Crawford's fingers tightened imperceptibly on the steering wheel. "Down time?"

"Yeah. Just a bit of breathing room. He… Ummm… Asked me out."

"On a date?"

"Sort of. I guess he wanted me to be his girlfriend. It's not like we would need to get to know each other or anything. We're probably a bit past dating."

Crawford flicked his eyes off the road onto Starling for a split second. "Just because he knows you, Clarice, that doesn't mean that he _knows_ you. That you two know each other is no excuse for not dating properly. I know the sort or meals you two get, and that is not proper dinner. He might know what fast food you eat, fast food is not the foundations of a good relationship." Crawford paused. He wasn't really sure where that came from. It probably wasn't within his jurisdiction to be providing dating advice to an employee, was it? Another quick glance at Starling revealed that he had not overstepped his bounds. He pushed on. "So why the breathing room?"

"I turned him down." Starlings voice was flat.

"Oh." Crawford blinked slowly. "So this is why I'm driving you to the auction then?" When it was apparent, after a moment's silence, that Starling would not speak, he continued, "Which is perfectly fine. Someone needs to look out for you."

Feeling uncomfortable in this virgin territory, Crawford changed the subject while thinking about the best way to tackle the 'John' situation. "Ford's a good choice. Nice American company. But why a Mustang? That's a pretty powerful upgrade from a Pinto. Those are thirsty, as well."

Relieved that the conversation had steered into more comfortable territory, Starling replied "I wanted something that reminded me of the Pinto. But also something with a bit of power under the bonnet – I like that I'll be able to put my foot down and just go, you know? I didn't want something too big, either. Those family sedans aren't me. You can't zip in and out of traffic with those. I can be a menace on the road with this if I want to." Starling's face was bright and exuberant.

"You had better drive careful in that machine, you hear? I don't want to find out you've wrapped yourself around a power pole or tree. That would ruin my day." It would more than ruin his day. It would probably put him out for weeks, if not months.

"I drive careful, Mr. Crawford. Always have. Doesn't mean I can't have a little fun. Goodness knows the world needs a little brightness sometimes." Starling almost sulked, but checked herself just before the pout escaped.

"Brightness and fun do not equal recklessness, Clarice. Be careful, and you'll go far." He had finally found a way to address Starling's potential love interest. "What's wrong with John?"

Starling's smile faded. "Wrong with him?"

"Well, I see you two getting on like a house on fire. You're as thick as thieves. You spend more time with him than anyone I know. You even spend more time with him than with Ardelia. So, there must be something very wrong with the man if you can be friends with him but no more. Clearly there is nothing wrong with you. Is there?" His eyes narrowed as he turned his head to peer at Starling.

"No, there's nothing wrong with John or me. I feel close to him. He means the world to me, but I don't have any feelings for him. And I don't want to date at the moment."

Crawford pondered this statement. _I don't want to date at the moment._ She had dated before, hadn't she? Crawford racked his brain for information about Starling. _Excellent student._ Not helpful. _Quick study_. Also not helpful. _Accurate marksperson_. Wow, Jack, he mentally berated himself, you really know a lot about Clarice, don't you? Why haven't you been paying attention? Finally, after what felt like hours, but was in actual fact only minutes, he struck upon something.

"Weren't you seeing that fellow from the Smithsonian for a while?"

Starling sighed heavily. "I saw him a few times, but he was too awkward for my liking. And he wasn't at all athletic. It wasn't even that. He just didn't want to do anything besides look at bugs." Well. That wasn't entirely true, but she wasn't about to admit that to Mr. Crawford.

"Did you at least give him a decent chance, Clarice?"

"I gave him long enough to know he wasn't for me. He was pretentious and juvenile at the same time. He let his dogs jump all over me, and got upset that I didn't appreciate it. We didn't see eye to eye on so many things."

"But you see eye to eye about many things with John."

Starling had started to fidget in her seat. "That's true, but it seems that I see eye to eye with him because we developed those opinions together."

"How can that be? You developed your opinions during college and he developed his overseas with the marines. There is no way those experiences can be considered similar." Crawford had kept his eyes on the road, but he knew that Starling was crossing and uncrossing her arms, apparently unable to get comfortable.

"Well, I don't rightly know what it is Mr. Crawford, but I know what I feel. He's familiar, and I definitely don't have any _amorous_ feelings for him."

"Would you have called him juvenile as well?"

"No, not juvenile. But maybe you're right. Maybe it's because he doesn't seem mature enough."

Crawford decided that he wasn't going to push his luck and didn't need the rest of the car ride to be awkward and uncomfortable, so he lightened the mood slightly. "Never mind. You know, Clarice, I've always said to myself 'Always have a backup plan'. So long as you have a backup plan, you can't go wrong."

"Yeah," Starling snorted, "My backup plan is to join the nunnery, or the stay in the FBI. That'll keep me single!" They both chuckled at this.


	7. Chapter 7

In a small conference room on the fourth floor of the Hoover Building in Washington DC, approximately 30 people were being briefed for the upcoming firearms raid on the Trey Eight Crips. The room was uncharacteristically warm; there were too many bodies for the air conditioning unit to easily cope with. House plans and associated street maps had been posted up on a series of white boards located at the front of the room. Mug shots and surveillance photographs had been affixed to various locations around the boards. The placement of each photograph indicated a direct correlation to either the house itself or street corners as identified on the map by lines and arrows.

Starling was located near the front of the room. Having arrived early, she had slightly more time to examine the whiteboard, and her position gave her an unobstructed view of both the speaker and the material being presented. The raid was essentially an attempt by the BAFT to reduce the number of guns in circulation in the DC area, as there had been a recent spike in robberies, which was related to the increase in drug usage. From the surveillance, wiretaps and interstate information provided from the FBI, they knew that there was a shipment arriving within the next 12 hours, and distribution would commence approximately 24 hours after that. The guns were being supplied by the Hell's Angels in Los Angeles; intel told them that these weapons were overflow stock from the Gulf Conflict, and the FBI and BAFT were running a simultaneous operation in LA under a RICO warrant. It was understood that the Crips would perform inventory checks prior to payment and distribution. The house was to be stormed by a combination of FBI and BAFT agents, in two teams, from both front and rear immediately after the commencement of weapons distribution; any successful escapees were to be picked up by the Washington DC Police department S.W.A.T. team, which was maintaining a 50 foot perimeter. The DC police were maintaining a 100 foot perimeter with instruction to arrest any dubious looking characters, or people with known drug or firearm affiliations.

The agents in the conference room consisted of a 30/70 split of FBI and AFT agents – shuffling around a little, Starling ascertained that she knew about half of the people in there, from both agencies. There were only a handful of female agents. Luckily, the DC police were being briefed at their own headquarters, as the temperature would have become unbearable very quickly, and the flickering florescent tubes would have caused extreme irritation and distraction during the two-part briefing.

Starling headed back into the Hoover building the next evening to prepare for the impeding Crips raid. Due to the unknown timeframe of the raid, Starling changed into her SWAT gear with the other agents in the headquarter locker rooms, located in the basement of the building. As they loaded up equipment into the unmarked van, Starling found out more information about the crew she was about to perform the raid with. The team had requested her as the FBI liaison as they saw her shoot at the pistol championships last year – they preferred the FBI team to the DEA, due to the fact that the interactions between DEA and BAFT were interlinked and the agencies did not typically share information, resulting in crossed wires and botched operations, and two of them had been on raids with her before; she was an efficient operator, not likely to pull the team down. The fact that she was a woman was even better; there would be no cock fighting and friction amongst the team regarding who did what.

As they were rolling into the raid under the cover of night, there was no need for any cooling in the van. Starling traded banter with the men while waiting to arrive at their designated drop-off point, a rented house with a drive in garage five houses down from the target Crip safe house.

"You boys been working together long?" Starling directed this at agent Smith, who she had only just been introduced to.

"Yup, 'bout nine months now – me 'n' Rodriguez been together for longer, maybe two years?" He tipped his head towards Rodriguez for confirmation.

"Yeah, that's right. Nice shootin' by the way, Starling. We thought your team would do better as a whole, but no luck this year, huh?" Starling grinned at Rodriguez. He was always friendly towards her – he used to be on Starling's shooting team, and had only transferred from the FBI to AFT a few years ago; they still saw each other at competitions and composite raids such as this one. "They keep the 'A' team together here." The other men nodded in agreement.

"What's your take on this?" Agent Thompson asked the question. He wanted to know if there were any opinions on how the raid was to be run. They were to traverse the five houses between the drop off point and the Crip's house, so that they were in position at the back door, ready for a simultaneous entry as soon as they commenced distributing weapons. It was their job to cut communications to the house along the way. The only fixed positions were Lee, the techie who would cut the comms lines, and Agent Moore, a large, square man who had a penchant for kicking down doors. Thompson was an easy going man, a smooth communicator, open to suggestions. His forte was negotiations; he had done some work with the Hostage Rescue teams as a negotiator before, and made full use of all the skills he had developed there.

Lee piped up. "There's not much coverage in the area; hopefully it'll be a dark night. I'll cut the wires before you guys get into the yard. We'll be lurking tonight." There were nods of agreement – gardening was generally not a drug dealer's strong point… unless they were selling weed. But then, most of _that_ cultivation was done indoors or deep in the forest.

They pulled into the garage and smoothly exited the van. The van would depart in 5 minute's time and the next crew, the backup crew for both front and rear entry teams would arrive in an identical van and position themselves one house down, and at the time of entry, move into position to secure both exits while the main teams were doing their thing.

Starling was glad she was not required to be the techie on this mission – the gloves she had to wear as part of the SWAT uniform made handling the wire cutters difficult, and the additional tools she had to carry on top of the body armor made it challenging to climb.

The team checked that their communication lines were clear, and jogged through the back of the yard, launching over the fences silently. They positioned themselves in the shadows and waited for their call.

Sometimes, Starling reflected, the worst part was waiting. She was hunkered down on one knee in the dark shadows, trying to keep her breathing light, feeling perspiration develop on her lower back and collect on the waistband of her pants. She could smell her own nervousness in her sweat, and hear the men breathing around her. They smelled heavily of aftershave, and faintly of gunsmoke. When she moved her knee around to find a more comfortable position, the scent of freshly crushed grass and earth wafted up to her nostrils. The intercom crackled to life.

"Lets get ready to rumble, boys and girls! Almost action station time. Positions!"

The call came from the battered mover's truck parked adjacent to the Crip safe house. In it was a tech crew who had been in the truck monitoring the wire taps for movement over the past 24 hours. They had open lines with both the perimeter and the BAFT, and were directing all communications between the agents involved in the raid.

"Alpha and gamma, in position." Alpha team was the front entry team, and gamma team was Starling's team; beta team, that was, the backup, consisted of six members, on both lines of communication, so they knew exactly what was going on. Gamma team moved into position by the back door, Moore in front, ready to shift his bulk around and kick in the door. Starling's tactical vest was heavy on her shoulders, digging into her flesh; her gun belt felt like it was cutting into her hipbones. Her breathing had elevated to beyond what was normal for the amount of activity she was undertaking; she unholstered her pistol with her right hand and brought her left hand up to grip it loosely. Her pupils dilated, and she consciously slowed her breathing down. They could hear talking on the other side of the door.

"GO! GO! GO!"

Moore swung around and smashed the door in with a powerful kick. He continued his forward motion into the kitchen, where Crips were standing around the table, guns on display. They were taken completely by surprise, some of them reaching for weapons, some with weapons already in their hands. They could hear alpha squad entering the living room.

"GET ON THE GROUND!" Moore and Thompson were providing instruction to the four Crips still in the kitchen; 3 others had fled out one door down the hallway; one had fled into the bedroom. Starling and Lee, having entered last, pursued the Crip running towards the bedroom. Starling heard gunshots going off behind her. _Fuck. Close quarter combat. Not good._ Simultaneous shouts of "Stop, FBI" and "AFT!" came from Starling and Lee as they were nearing the bedroom door; a millisecond later the door frame near Starling's chest exploded in a splinter of wood. She ducked for cover to the left, and Lee moved to the right of the door.

"You hit?" Lee's eyes were wild, flashing between Starling and the bedroom. Starling shook her head. There was another round of shots, this time into the adjacent wall from where Lee was standing, approximately chest height. Lee could just see the perp sitting on the floor next to the bed. He made motions to Starling indicating were the perp was shooting from. Each time Lee peered into the room, a barrage of bullets smashed into the wall to the right of him, showering him in plaster dust. The Crip could not see Lee or Starling; he could only shoot in their general direction. He was using a fully automatic weapon, either a M 10 or an UZI; his bursts started around chest height, and finished at head height. Starling motioned for Lee to create a distraction as she crouched and pivoted on her toes to get into position. She could tell the general vicinity of the shooter from where his bullets were hitting, but she was still only going to get one shot at this. She raised her left hand to start a countdown for Lee; _five, four, three_, left hand back on her pistol, internal count only now, _two_, Lee shouted out with "Put your gun down!" _One_, Lee inched his body towards the doorway to draw fire, and instantly drew back. The Crip had taken the bait and started shooting. In that instant, leading with her gun, Starling leaned her body into the room, took aim and squeezed off three quick rounds into the perp's chest. His Uzi went quiet as he dropped it to the ground. There was still shouts of "Stop! FBI" and "Get on the ground" throughout the house, but no more gunfire. Lee went to secure the bedroom, and Starling moved into the den to the left, where shouts of "FBI, guns down!" could be heard. As she moved to round the corner, she cautiously peered into the room. She could see Brigham facing her, with his pistol raised, pointing at a woman wearing dreadlocks. Behind him, 2 other members of alpha team were poised, ready to shoot. The woman was aiming a Mac 10 at them. It was a hostile standoff, no room for error.

Brigham was shouting again. "Put the gun down. This isn't going to end well otherwise"

The woman replied in a very quiet voice "It aint gonna end well either way."

Starling weighed up her options. The woman was nearly 10 feet in the room, aiming a M 10 at Brigham and others. She couldn't afford to shoot her, in case she squeezed off some rounds as she went down. Rodriguez came up behind her. She motioned him backwards with her hand, and backed up with him.

"Hey. Brigham's holed up there with a shooter. He's here, and she's there." Starling drew an imaginary picture on the wall, indicating their relative positions with her finger. "I need you to create a diversion here." She motioned between Brigham and the woman, in another room.

"No probs. Standard diversion." Standard diversion was a short burst of gunshots, then a sustained burst, drawing people's attention away. The short burst was to inform the person the diversion was for, the long one to cover up sound. Starling nodded, and moved back into position. She could see no one had moved. From another room, came a quick burst of gunfire. Everyone in the room flinched, and Starling stepped into the room under the cover of sound. By the time the shooting stopped, Starling had maneuvered directly behind the woman. Brigham and the other agents did not look at her. She calmly said, "Slowly put the gun down"

The woman sharply asked, "Or what?"

Starling pushed the barrel of her pistol into the back of her neck. "That's what. Put it down now, please."

* * *

They managed to net 14 Crips in the raid; there were 11 in the house and the other 4 were picked up attempting to enter the perimeter. Nearly 100 firearms of various description were in the haul; there was also some heroin and methamphetamine. After the debriefing, while Starling was loading the trunk of her car, Brigham pulled up beside her, and with his window down, asked, "You doing anything now?"

Starling turned around slowly. John Brigham had not spoken a word to her for nearly 3 months, since he had brushed her off the week her car died. "Why?"

"I just wanted to know if you wanted to get a bite together. You never told me you got a new car."

Starling bit down the acidic rebuke that rose quickly in her throat; she had seen him at the range since that day, and he had been quick to pack up his things before she had a chance to greet him, or always seemed to be in deep conversations with other people. "Yeah. I could eat."

She followed him to a diner she had not been to before. It was a Texas themed BBQ house, with a large, barn style layout and a smoky haze inside. The waitress seated them, and Brigham suggested that the smoked turkey would be right up Starling's alley. She ordered ribs instead.

"Look, I'm sorry." Starling raised both eyebrows at Brigham. She had not been expecting an apology. "I freaked out. I was an ass and you didn't deserve that." They both knew what he was talking about. Starling sat quietly as Brigham went on. "I never went on any dates." She snorted softly, eyes beginning to burn brightly. "But I couldn't be around you. Not when you rejected me like that. A brother? It's taken me ages to come to terms with this. I realized that I really like being around you, no matter what." Starling looked away, her anger diminishing, but not dying completely. "I want to know something Clarice." She flicked her eyes back to him, meeting his squarely for the first time that night. "Can we still be friends? Just like we were? Can we pretend this never happened? That I never asked?" When she did not reply, he kept going. "It was really nice, what we had before, and I'm a dick for screwing it up but…" Starling sharply cut him off, "John." His sharp intake of breath whistled through his lips, which were partially open. "It's OK." It was OK. She was forgiving him. "Just one thing." Brigham unconsciously pulled his shoulder blades in towards his spine, tensing his whole upper body. What conditions could she possibly impose? "Never. _Ever._ Fuck me around again." Brigham relaxed his shoulders and smiled. He could agree to those terms. Easy peasy, Japanesey.

* * *

"How'd you get pinned by her anyway? I didn't even know you were in on this raid." Starling asked around a mouthful of milkshake. They had eaten their dinner, and were sitting, talking, catching up on old times and preparing for new.

"Yeah, I came into the brief late, and stayed at the back. When we came busting in on the count – Wade, d'you know Wade? Never mind. Wade kicked the door in, and I came chargin in after him. We hear you guys come in the back, but we don't see anyone. So Wade 'n me go right, into one of the rooms, and the other guys start to go left. These two Crips come flying past behind us straight into our guys. There was a bit of wrestling, but lucky the beta guys were at the door. We smashed them pretty hard; by the time I got to the front door I see there's two guys on top of 'em, three guns trained on 'em. Then we hear shooting, so Wade 'n I head through the lounge room, to provide backup – and she was just there, standin' hunched over by a crate. We ask her to put up her hands, and she slowly stands up, and brings this M 10 up with her, aimed at us. Fuck knows where she was hiding. Anyway, you know the rest."

"Sounds like we caught the brunt of it. Except for Evelda, of course. She looked wild when we collared her. You hear that she had a butterfly knife hidden in her bra?"

"I believe it. You shoulda seen her eyes – she was crazy! Enough about her. Tell me about the 'Stang."

"What's to tell?"

"How much?"

"Bargain. That's all you need to know."

"Where'd you buy her?"

"Drug auction. The Tri-State one."

"She go?"

"You better believe it."

"If you aren't going to tell me what you got her for, at least tell me about the auction."

Starling smiled. It was nice having John back.


	8. Chapter 8

Starling could see a lone figure running in front of her on the indoor track at the Hoover building. It seemed that she had been spending a lot of her time there lately; she barely had any personal items left at Quantico. She wasn't entirely sure who it was exactly until she got closer.

"Mornin' Mr. Crawford," panted Starling. Crawford looked towards her, taking in her flushed face, FBI sweats and neat ponytail. He kept a steady pace, and replied, "Hello Clarice. What a pleasant surprise to find you here this morning." While he did look pleased to see her, he did not really look that surprised.

Starling fell in line with Crawford's slow gait. It was a pleasant change of speed from her previous long strided run. After completing a few laps, she had her breath back so she asked, "What brings you out here, Mr. Crawford?"

"I've been wanting to catch up with you for a while, Starling. You've been difficult to get a hold of these past few months."

"I've been spending a lot of time in the Hoover building, sir." It was true; Mr. Pearsall had her running errands out of the Hoover building due to the centralized location. "I didn't realize you wanted to talk to me, you could have paged. I could have come to Quantico to see you."

"Ahhh… it's not really work related, Clarice." They had slowed down to a walking pace, and Starling turned her head slightly so she could look at Crawford's face. Over the years, she had watched Jack Crawford's metamorphosis from a fit, neat middle aged man into a thin, slightly disheveled old man with a mild stoop. She was not sure how he had managed to get so old so fast. "I'm thinking of retiring."

Starling stopped in her tracks. It took Crawford a few steps to notice she was no longer beside him. When he did notice, he turned and walked back to her. He studied her face intently, his eyes flicking between her eyes and mouth, trying to ascertain her mood.

"I haven't fully decided yet. I just wanted you to know that I was thinking about it, that's all."

"That's nice sir. Everyone needs to take time off once in a while." Starling's West Virginian twang was pronounced; her voice hitched as she was speaking. Her eyes did not suggest any pleasure at Crawford's impending retirement; she seemed a little like a lost child, her eyes wide and red rimmed. She cleared her throat and looked away from Crawford.

Crawford considered Clarice's affect. He had patterned himself as something of a paternal figure in her life; this was, however, probably confined to her professional life. How would she consider his retirement? Would it really effect her significantly? He studied her face. She looked concerned, worried and agitated; not pleased or relaxed as she should have been; her manner certainly did not match her words. "It's not like you will never see me again." He instantly regretted these words as she visibly blanched. So his retirement was like death to her. She would re-live the loss of her father again if he retired. _Damn. Some time off would have been nice._ "I was just tossing the idea your way; I wasn't seriously considering it. Wouldn't know what to do with myself." Crawford smiled. Starling gained a little of her normal color, however did not smile at his joke.

"Everyone has to retire, Mr. Crawford." Her eyes were downcast, and her shoulders were slumped forward. She turned back to the track and started jogging at a slow pace again. Crawford started alongside her.

"Yes, but I'm a few years away from it yet. I'm not the old man that you think I am." Starling smiled a little at this.

"We'll address it closer to the date. Like I said, I'm a long way off… not much to do anyway, and no-one competent enough to take over my cases." It was true enough. He had not engaged in any extracurricular or recreational social activities since Bella died. It was as if his social life had died with her. There was certainly no true talent coming through Behavioral Science; it didn't help that they were cutting his funding and poaching his star pupils.

"Mr. Crawford..."

"Drop it, Starling," He cut her off sharply. "It's a few years off, anyway, so don't stress about it now." He needed to change the subject quickly now. He wheezed a little, so Starling would slow down to a walk again and not push him on the matter of his retirement.

"Are you all right Mr. Crawford? You don't look so good. We should stop."

_Played my card too well._

"No, I'm fine. My ticker doesn't work as well as it used to, that's all." He smiled at her while simultaneously tapping on his chest with his index finger, over his heart. They had both stopped walking. "Let's take a seat on this bench here so I can catch my breath." They walked slowly towards the bench. Crawford grunted as he sat down. It was less of an act than he had wanted. He had been struggling with chest pains and indigestion of late; the Alka -Seltzer that he normally took didn't seem to have the same effect as it did in the past. He had found that he was taking more tablets more regularly to feel normal. He also found that he was constantly plagued with alternating feelings of anger and sadness. He audibly cleared his throat, ready to address Starling.

"Have you considered settling down?"

Starling turned to give him her full attention. She raised an eyebrow at the question. It made her feel very uncomfortable, however she felt obligated to answer. She paused, mentally grasping for the best way to answer the question.

"I feel quite settled at the moment, Mr. Crawford."

Crawford smiled. At least Starling was getting better at evading questions, even if her diplomacy was still rubbish. "That's not what I meant. You know that. Find a man. Or a woman. I've heard about those alternative lifestyles. Why not? Everyone needs someone." Crawford's eyes clouded over. The thought of same sex couples would have seemed outrageous to Bella. It used to seem outrageous to him, until the desolation and loneliness had revealed that an unnatural pairing was better than no pairing at all. "Have some children." He sighed rather heavily. "Don't let life pass you by." This last statement came out as a soft whisper. He hadn't even meant to say it. He had never meant to become emotional discussing this. He wasn't even discussing it, not really. He just didn't want Clarice to make the same mistakes he did. She was running out of time for happiness, whether she knew it or not.

Starling watched Mr. Crawford's face soften, then droop, as if in extreme sadness. She knew he had no children, and that he was a relatively private man. She wondered if this conversation was somehow more about him than it was about her. "It's my life Mr. Crawford, and I know what I'm doing." Starling said this with a grim finality. She was not about to discuss her love life with Jack Crawford. She had once said to him that she didn't want to date at that particular stage in time. Whilst this was partially true, it wasn't the full truth. While dating Noble Pilcher, she had a fun time. She did not, however, feel secure; safe. She couldn't quite put a finger on the way she felt; it was a mixture between isolation and unease. She didn't want that feeling with John. She liked where she was with him, and didn't want to risk that, and introduce unwanted emotions. The one meaningful relationship she had experienced with a man, without these feelings of isolation, was during college – he had wanted to lead a bohemian lifestyle – travelling, free-spirited, without a care in the world. While it had seemed incredibly romantic at the time, the years of hunger and institutionalization had taught her to be more realistic; she had tried to reason with him, but he had left her. He did not finish college. She did not think about the walls she had erected around her; they were an automatic, natural defense mechanism. She did not miss physical contact as such; it was nice, of course, however not essential; she never even considered emotional contact to be a necessity in life. To her, relationships simply resulted in complications.

Starling looked at her watch. Quarter past eight. "Sorry Mr. Crawford, I need to go."

Crawford nodded at her, and waved her off. He watched her sprinting towards the change rooms, a sadness settling heavy in his chest, inexplicable burning behind his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

It had taken Starling a few weeks to settle back into a pattern after John's death at the fish market. What had started as a stiff drink to numb the loss had developed into something of a dependency; she was using alcohol as a sleeping aid, letting it drag her into a drunken stupor; by the time she had realized that she had something of an addiction developing, it seemed almost pointless to stop. She had, however, forced herself to discontinue her nightcaps. Clarice Starling did not _need_ anyone or anything. The first few nights were hell. The dark shadows in her bedroom grew ominous and large, and she could hear her wristwatch ticking away, initially soft and distant, but as the night ticked on, the ticking became louder, until it seemed to originate from within her head, interrupted only by her thumping heartbeat. When she finally got to sleep, it was a jumbled, broken mess of half-forgotten memories about her father and arguments with John. For some reason, she was always on the brink of falling in these dreams; be it off the edge of a cliff, a building or even being pushed out of an airplane; she was watching them argue, unable to intervene, until they accidentally bumped her so she lost her balance and fell into a black, endless abyss. She would inevitably wake up in a cold sweat with a nauseous, dropping vertigo type feeling in her stomach, and she was almost always panting heavily. Sometimes she thrashed herself awake.

Starling had managed to bury her feelings of loss deep in her psyche by hiding all of John's personal effects out of sight, after the funeral. If it wasn't there, she didn't have to deal with it. Her first panic attack, while terrifying, had also left her feeling dirty and needy. As soon as she was remotely in control, she had shrugged off her concerned co-worker in a detached, cold fashion, gone to the rest room and splashed water on her face. She stared herself down in the mirror and repeated the mantra of "I am good at my job. I did the right thing. It's not my fault," over and over again. No one had come to her aid during subsequent panic attacks.

The Hogan's alley shoot filming brought it all starkly back; reminding the guy who was playing Bourke that his right leg was twitching not his left, trying to remember the exact order of things playing out, trying to remember which side of her vision Brigham popped out in and when he popped out. She was drained. When Crawford wasn't in his office, she was undecided as to what to do. Should she find him or should she let the bottle make it all go away?

She pushed the door to the sports bar open. It was relatively close to work, and mostly frequented by law enforcement officers. It had a homely feel; John had tried to convince her to go there for some drinks after work a few times. He had mentioned that a few of the old boys liked to hang there; a small part of her was still looking for Crawford, whereas another part of her was questioning whether she would really order the bourbon whisky she wanted if Crawford was there. The bar was almost empty, and there were no faces that she recognized, so she made her way to the counter and ordered a double, neat. She practically jumped out of her skin when Crawford spoke from nearly directly behind her.

"That's a bit strong for a school night, Starling."

A cold, hard statement. Not a single joking element in it at all. Starling felt like a teenager caught creeping home, shoes in hand, well after curfew. She collected her glass off the barkeep and turned to face Jack Crawford. He tilted his head and gestured towards the shadowy table at which he had been sitting. Starling could see that it was somewhat obscured from view if you were looking from the front door. His jacket was draped over the back of one of the chairs, and there was a half glass of beer on the table in front of the chair and an open pack of chips facing that chair. The table was otherwise empty. Starling gave Crawford a tentative smile. Uncharted territory ahead. After taking their seats, Crawford sighed heavily.

"How are you holding up, Starling?"

Clarice lifted the tumbler to her lips to take a sip. She unexpectedly found the amber liquid far too fiery for her liking. She took a small sip anyway, feeling the fluid burn down her throat, the vapor trail flaring up into her nostrils. She gritted her teeth to stop from throwing up.

"I've been better."

"How was filming today?"

Starling took a deep, shuddering breath. She cleared her throat twice, and took another sip of bourbon. "Harrowing."

Crawford watched her nurse her glass, how she squeezed it between her index finger and thumb, ejecting from one hand, catching in the other, causing the tumbler to skate across the table. She had dark bags under her eyes and looked drawn and haggard. Certainly not the vibrant thirty-two he knew her to be. "Are you sleeping?"

A noncommittal grunt, and she raised the glass for another sip. She had almost finished the fluid off. He had not touched his beer since he sat down. He waited for her to expand.

"How did you deal with…" she trailed off, suddenly unsure if she should continue on.

_Bella. I miss you every second of every day, kid. How do you pick up the pieces? How can you replace that piece that was ripped from your soul, exposing every raw nerve? There is nothing that can replace that missing part of you._

"I often think that she is in a better place. I hope she's waiting for me, wherever she is. I miss her." He sighed. "I try and remember all the good bits – how we met, when we got married, before she got sick…" He could feel tears threatening, so he stopped talking and took a few gulps of his beer. It was no longer chilled, and most of the carbonation had gone. "I try to celebrate her life, and not linger on her death. Her passing made me incredibly sad; I wanted her to come back, I wanted God to take the blight from her so she didn't have to go; towards the end I wanted her to stay a little longer, but then I came to realize that I was being selfish, wanting her to stay for me. She was in a lot of pain. Cope? I guess I did cope." A waning, nostalgic smile washed over his features. He did not want to think about how he dealt with the loss of his daughter; for in his mind, the baby was a girl, his little baby girl that he couldn't save. "I guess I cope by thinking that she wants me to be happy; to make the best of what I got. She was a practical lady, and I think she'll wait; we had a good time together; we had fun. That's how I still get by. Keeping these thoughts, and knowing we shared these things." The smile faded from his face, and he was once again sad.

Starling was lost in her thoughts. She had listened to Crawford, however had mentally digressed. Was she happy? Did she have time for fun? Did she have fun with John? John's sad, gutted face when she rejected him flashed before her eyes. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, preparing to down the rest of the drink in one gulp, forcing tears back. Was she happy? Had she ever been happy? When was the last time that she had some good, honest _fun? _

The two of them sat silently at the table for a long while after that, each one lost in their own thoughts. The jukebox interrupted their reverie with Michael Jackson's "You are not alone". The ballad was too much for both parties; it was clearly time for them to leave.


	10. Chapter 10

After coming home from the bar, Starling had sat in the back yard gazing at the fence for a long time. She wasn't thinking about anything in particular, she just sat there, dazed. Ardelia's car pulled in to the driveway, and Starling noticed that twilight had passed, and she now sat in darkness. She hadn't noticed the sun setting. Ardelia called to her from her side of the duplex, but Starling remained silent, letting Ardelia think the kitchen was empty. Starling waited until Ardelia retreated to her room before she headed inside. The warmth of the house engulfed Starling as she stepped through the back door. The night air chilled to the bone, but it was only recognized due to the contrast with the house. She shivered, poured herself a drink and sat down at the kitchen table in the dark. Careful not to scrape her chair, Starling sat down; she could hear Delia moving about on her of the apartment.

She sat contemplatively in the kitchen, eyeballing the half glass of amber liquid positioned between her hands. What did it mean? She knew she would have nightmares again. The falling she could understand. That was dream psychology 101. Falling meant lack of control. But what did her father and John have to do with each other? The best she could do was that they wanted possession of her, and were fighting over her, pulling her in the right direction. The thought made her tired. Sick of people telling her how to live her life, she screamed at the imaginary forces in her head. _Just leave me the hell alone!_ She drew a deep shuddering breath and looked at the whiskey in contempt. _You too. Fuck off and leave me alone._ The glass skidded gently across the table, coming to rest somewhere near the center. Its contents did not spill.

* * *

It was some time past 2:30 in the morning. Clarice Starling, after lying awake for hours, had finally fallen asleep. Her eyes were fluttering rapidly beneath her eyelids, as if tracking a particularly interesting table-tennis game, or watching an in depth argument between two people. Her body twitched, dancing spastically across the bed. After a short amount of time, she rolled onto her side and began to rock back and forth.

_Clarice was sitting on her bunk bed, keen to discuss her arrangements to go to junior prom with her friend and roommate, Donna. Donna was a few years older than Clarice, and was good to bounce ideas around with. A little like an older sister, Clarice looked up to Donna, and sometimes, Donna looked out for Clarice. Clarice had been exchanging ideas about an upcoming formal with the girls from the class above her. They had been chatting about it all week; they were going to get the best dresses, the best shoes – one of the girls said that her mom would help them all with hair and makeup, while another girl said there was a new limousine company in town, and they might be able to all pitch in and hire one. Clarice had not known what a limousine was, but when the girls explained it to her, it seemed so glamorous! They headed downtown on the bus so they could watch the television at Sears; a few of the girls had televisions at home, however their parents frowned upon the gaggle of girls descending on the house, interrupting their viewing of _Days of our Lives_ or _Six Million Dollar Man_. They could also get ideas for dresses. They did, of course, need to be at the height of fashion. Clarice had a wonderful day after school; chatting with friends, browsing through the department store. She was looking forward to the dance; it was going to be an exciting change of pace from the usual drudgery of school and the orphanage. It was going to be fun._

"_Donna! Hey, Donna, wait!" Clarice saw Donna walk past the doorway towards the bathroom. Donna liked to bathe early – she said it prevented her using the showers after they became unsanitary._

"_Hey Clarice. Everything ok?"_

"_Yeah." Clarice smiled shyly at Donna, who smiled back. _

"_You c'n come talk to me in the bathroom if you like – I wanna get the hot water before it runs out."_

"_OK."_

_Clarice allowed Donna the privacy of undressing and entering the shower before going into the bathroom and sitting down. Starling's excitement was barely contained. Donna poked her head around the shower curtain and asked what all the fuss was about._

"_Junior Prom!" Clarice had been holding her breath just a little, and the words came in a rush._

"_Not your year level." Donna ducked back behind the shower curtain and was working up a serious lather in her hair. Clarice pouted. "I c'n plan for next year." _

"_Yeah. You do that." Donna was uncharacteristically snarky. Clarice had never heard her like this before. _

Starling knew that this was a dream.  
In her mind, she willed herself to change the outcome; prevent it from becoming a nightmare.

"_I will." Clarice was on the defensive now, no longer keen and eager to share her experience at Sears with her friend, somewhat unsure of her ability to be able to attend the social event. She asked warily, "Did you go to prom?"_

_Donna returned to shampooing her hair, however was now doing it in a disturbingly fierce manner, as if something incredibly offensive and stubborn was stuck to her scalp. "No." _

"_Why not?"_

"_Why do you think?" Her reply was much sharper now. She turned the shower off and wrapped her towel around herself, standing, dripping in the shower stall, facing Clarice. Clarice saw that a lot of Donna's hair was now missing. She peered around the girl and could see large clumps of hair blocking the drain. _

All that missing hair looks sorta funny, doesn't it?

_Clarice sat in silence, looking at her shoes. She knew why. "But all the other girls will be going." It was plaintive, almost whiny. _

Pathetic. Don't listen to her.  
Go on, enjoy yourself.  
Don't let life pass you by.

"_I won't tell you why. I'll just ask you some questions. Did your little friends make plans? What to wear? Who to go with?" Clarice nodded slowly. She didn't know if she wanted to hear this. "Did you look at dresses?" Another slow nod. "I hope you had a good look at how much they cost." A shake this time. "No? even if you did look, how would you pay for it?" A hesitant shrug. "How would you even pay for the tickets?"_

"_I could get my date to pay…" Clarice started, but was cut off. "No!" Donna closed the distance between them surprisingly fast, considering that all she had wrapped around her torso was the towel. "Don't you dare! Don't you ever!" She flung her hands up and was wildly gesticulating at Clarice, spraying droplets of water into Clarice's face. "If." Donna was almost hyperventilating, she was so worked up. "If some boy pays, then he owns you for the night! He's bought you! That makes you no better than a whore!"_

No!  
No it doesn't!  
This is just kid stuff.  
All for some fun.

_Clarice was huddled over in the chair shaking. She looked up at Donna, whose chest was heaving deeply with self-righteous anger. The bald patches on Donna's head, caused by the violent scrubbing, began to weep pus. The scores that Donna's fingernails made in her scalp formed deep lines; these channels were glossy and red, as if filled with gelatinized blood. Clarice looked back at her toes and trembled. She reached up to wipe the water from her face, and her fingers smeared a mixture of scratchy and slimy material across her cheek. She looked down at her hands to see that instead of water, Donna had flicked a mixture of rotten flesh and fingernails at her. The sudden smell of decay pervaded her nostrils, and unexpectedly, while she was looking down, the source of the smell came to her; little lamb corpses were pawing at her with their babyish cloven feet, ripping the hooves off when they contacted her body, their accusatory empty eye sockets fixated on her face, tiny battered muzzles with mouths open, open for a bleating scream that never came._

_Silent tears rolled down her face as she glanced back at the figure in front of her. A bloated grey corpse had replaced Donna. Her chest had been mutilated, and pale fatty tissue, marbled with blood vessels now sat where her breasts used to be. The corpse swayed unsteadily, watching her with a vacant gaze. Clarice suddenly jumped up and ran back down the hall to her shared room and threw herself onto her mattress. A swirling black abyss opened up under her bed, and Clarice's bunk began to cave into it. As the chaotic maelstrom became too much for her to bear, the angry, desolate dam of tears burst and sobs racked her small frame. "I'm not a whore. I just want to be like the other kids. I just want to be loved. I just want what the other kids have. Is that so much to ask?"_

Get out.

_Donna came into the room, a monstrosity, larger than life, teeth bared, ready to savage Clarice. "Jeez, I'm sorry Claire. But you know what the Rolling Stones said." The creature's voice seemed to come from underwater._

_A garbled response from Clarice, muffled by the pillow. _

"_What?" The thing shuffled closer._

_Clarice braced herself. Attacked from above, attacked from below. Maybe, this time, she would be crunched up then spat into the abyss. Maybe this time, she wouldn't wake up at all._

"_**Wake up."**_

Masculine. Whose voice was that?

"_**Wake up, NOW!"**_

Starling woke with a start, sitting bolt upright on her bed, breathing rapidly, almost to the point of hyperventilation. Whose voice was that? She replayed the dream in her mind, thinking about the incident it was based on. She had desperately wanted to go to Prom, but was unable to afford the niceties to go with it. Even some of the poorer girls in her class managed to go; their mothers had scrimped and saved for them, and sewed their dresses. Their outfits turned out quite nicely, and the girls looked beautiful that particular evening. Clarice hadn't even been able to scrape enough money together for the materials required. But whose voice was it at the end saving her from the dream she couldn't quite control? It had an odd metallic rasp, one that she couldn't place immediately. The voice seemed cold, but also contained a curiously comforting inflection. Where had she heard it before? A chill fell over her.

Memphis.

Tennessee.

_"Thank you, Clarice."_


	11. Chapter 11

Crawford looked down at his cell phone in surprise. It was emitting an odd beeping sound, different from its usual electronic note. The sound was definitely emanating from his device; its gaudy little screen lit up fluorescent green. There appeared to be text scrolling across the face. He peered curiously at the contraption.

_Would you care to have breakfast with me? – Starling_

_Yeah. OK. That'd be nice. Hang on. What is this thing? _

He dialed Starling's number.

"Hello Mr. Crawford."

"Clarice. What was that thing you sent me?"

A pause. Then Starling's voice came, a little tentatively.

"I was hoping you might have time to have breakfast, that's all sir."

"No, not that. I'd be delighted to eat with you. The message. What was the message? How did that happen?"

"Oh. I'd be more than happy to show you later. Perhaps tomorrow? Over breakfast? That diner near Quantico that you like. Say, 6:30?"

"Sure. See you then."

* * *

Early as Jack Crawford arrived to the diner, Starling managed to beat him to it. Seated at a window bay, Starling was staring blankly at the road. She waved when he stepped out of his car.

He eased himself into the bench opposite her, and smiled. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No, I just got in myself."

Crawford's eyes flicked down to her jittery hands and empty coffee mug. Perhaps not. "How about some breakfast then. What would you like?" He motioned for a server to take their order.

"Bacon and eggs please. Oh, and some grits as well."

Good. She was eating well.

"Just some granola please, with some blueberries on top." He smiled at her. "I can't seem to have fatty foods much anymore. The doc doesn't let me." Turning to the waitress to catch her before she left, he called, "Some orange juice, too, please."

They exchanged pleasantries for most of breakfast. She explained all about the short messaging service, and even showed him where to find it on his cell. Breaking bread, in Jack Crawford's opinion, was one of the three major interactions humans could do to increase familiarity, encourage friendships and strengthen bonds. Crawford was having a great time catching up with her. After John's death, the stress from the Lecter case couldn't have been easy to cope with, but she seemed to be managing well. He had pondered sending her to see him. Being forced to take advantage of her youth and innocence made him feel dirty and cheap. Guilt and paranoia about Clarice's safety had gripped him for the first few years after Lecter's escape. Now, after the letter, concern for Clarice once again flourished. Lecter's letter, though seemingly innocuous, clearly showed a level of infatuation; infatuation from a serial killer that no young woman should have to deal with. Crawford felt awful for the sense of relief he felt when Lecter's affection towards Starling became apparent to him. At the bottom of his psyche, buried under his responsibilities and sensibilities, if he dared probe there, Jack Crawford realized that he considered himself _grateful_ towards Lecter for the apparent _fondness_ he displayed for Starling, especially if that fondness was the only way to ensure Clarice's ongoing safety. He checked his watch. It was still quite early; he could afford to have a coffee.

"Do you think it's wrong to have luxuries in life, Mr. Crawford?" He looked up at her sharply. She had caught him off guard, while he was looking down at his wrist.

"Luxuries?"

"Well… maybe not luxuries. Nice things. Things people want. Do you think that it's ok to indulge in wants over needs?"

"You're asking if I believe that it's reasonable to indulge yourself every once in a while?" Starling nodded. "Yes, absolutely! Life gets dull without some rewards. You know, if you had someone special, he could indulge you once in a while." He smiled. "I used to surprise Bella by coming home from work early. You know how precious time is to us; how hard it is to get time away sometimes." Starling nodded her head again. Time after time, Starling watched marriages break down due to work commitments and time constraints. This job could be hell on relationships. "You know, I think that she liked it better than when I got her jewelry."

He paused, fiddling with his cutlery, making it sparkle in the fluorescent lights. "You just go on ahead and do something nice for yourself. What else are you going to save up for, if not yourself?"

Starling frowned, and began to object. Crawford held up his hand to stop her. "When you got the Mustang, was it solely to get you from Point A to Point B?"

"Yes."

"So there was nothing cheaper you could have purchased that would have served the purpose of getting you to and from work every day."

"Well, there was, but it wouldn't have been as fun to drive."

"That's my point exactly – you paid more than necessary so that you could indulge in your desires. Your desire to go fast, turn heads, be in control of power. You are allowed to enjoy life Clarice."

She nodded slowly, absorbing his argument. Maybe he was right. She was sick of putting herself second. Maybe it was time to let Clarice Starling be number one.

* * *

Sitting in the reading area the Hoover building library between court sessions, Jack Crawford was able to think in relative peace and quiet. The lawyers used the study areas, however Jack had soon realized that the reading areas were almost completely deserted – people didn't seem to have time to read now days, with their hectic work schedules and demanding personal lives. With a book open in his lap, he was able to present the illusion that he was using the facility for its intended purpose while resting his legs and allowing his mind to roam without distractions from the outside world. The content of the book held no importance to him; he only wanted it to keep busybodies away. He allowed his thoughts to drift to the various conversations that he had shared with Clarice over breakfast the past few weeks. She had changed in the ten or so years that he had known her. _Everybody changes, Jack. It's called growing up. _He snorted at his own joke, the left side of his face twisted up in a humorless grin. _For you, it's called growing old._ The smile dropped off his face. Her life philosophies certainly weren't what he had expected; it seemed as if he was watching her transition before his eyes. No wonder, though. _That fuck Krendler keeps dicking with her career. Dumb fuck probably thinks he has a chance with her, too. _Crawford sighed. His power in the Justice Department had been limited at the best of times. Deputy Assistant Inspector General. What a person to pick a bone with. Every turn he took, every clever hole he managed to wriggle through to try and help Starling, that prick had managed to cut him short and erect roadblocks._ Deputy Assistant Inspector General, Paul Krendler, bested by a kid fresh out of college. Cue curtains, exit to the left. What a stupid cunt. _The upside was that Starling seemed to be investing a little more time in her personal life and had certainly come up with some intriguing questions during their get togethers. Crawford wondered if she was thinking about seeing someone.

* * *

"Mr. Crawford, how did you know she was the one?"

The spoon paused in its path between Crawford's cereal bowl and his mouth as he looked up into Starling's unwavering, steely eyes. He caught his minor indiscretion and placed the implement back into the granola. The question touched him more than it should have.

"I'm not exactly sure, Clarice. I know that sounds a little vague, but it was never fireworks or anything like that. I just… liked being with her. The sound of her voice, it was music to my ears. She always wanted to know how my day was. Not sure what she saw in me." He looked down into his bowl. His breakfast no longer seemed that appealing. He shoveled some into his mouth anyway. It lodged painfully into his throat, and took its damn time going down. "She was always so sensible. Not flighty like the other girls. A little like you. You're sensible." Starling frowned at him. She obviously didn't appreciate the tag.

"Was there ever anything you didn't agree on?"

"Some things. Clarice, relationships are, in part, built on compromise. Two people can't live together without some form of compromise – it doesn't matter if they're rocket scientists or half-wits. Unless you pair a rocket scientist with a half wit…." Crawford cocked his head. The thought of such an uneven relationship unbalanced him. It bordered on abusive. He shook his head. "No, erase that last one. It's not natural. Bella and I did not always see eye to eye. She had to trust me on certain things, and in turn, I had to trust her. I accepted that there were some things that she was better at."

* * *

Her questions, which had always been probing, had become more focused and less broad brush. She was honing in on her own issues, redefining her own moral boundaries. _I guess it's my own fault for opening that can of worms. _Crawford recalled another breakfast conversation.

* * *

"Did you two ever have hugely contrasting opinions on anything?"

"Not really. But that shouldn't be an issue for you, Clarice. The old adage 'Opposites Attract' does hold true. It just needs to be tempered with compromise." Crawford was enjoying some eggs on toast. He had found that dining with Clarice made him happy, and eating cardboard made him unhappy, so, throwing doctor's orders to the wind, he ordered what he pleased. Their conversations, whilst banal to the casual observer, were enthralling to Crawford. He relished their time together, where he received snippets of her life and they shared philosophies and opinions.

"Would you agree that the most important thing in a relationship is happiness, followed by compromise?" Starling was serious, as always. Crawford smiled at her. She reminded him of a toddler trying to decide if a new flavor was to her liking or not.

"It's love, Clarice, not the Spanish Inquisition. Sometimes it just feels right. Sometimes, you can't quantify love. The heart wants what the heart wants." The intensity of her gaze had not diminished.

* * *

Crawford wondered what the intense line of questioning was all about. He would be naive to think that she hadn't taken lovers before; why she needed his advice on long-term love was beyond him. Maybe this was why none of her previous relationships seemed to last. Shrugging at his own internal question, Jack turned a page in his book and shifted in the seat to a more comfortable position. What sort of man would satisfy a woman like Clarice? She was a strong, independent woman who didn't _want _for anything, yet, had an isolated loneliness that would surely be eased with a companion of sorts. Years ago, his initial pushes had met with stubborn resistance; he had come to realize, that, in her own time, she would probably seek out a companion of her liking. Why she was fleshing out the parameters with him was beyond his grasp. Jack had an inkling of the sort of person Clarice would choose; her man would be strong enough to not be cowed by life. He would have a strong moral grounding, possibly stronger than her own. Jack was sure Starling would choose an incredibly opinionated person to share her life with. He would listen to her opinions, and respect them, even if they did not align with his. Crawford wondered if such a man existed. He was relieved that she was at least 'on the prowl'. In his opinion, it was a vast improvement on 'not interested' or 'feeling quite settled'.

Jack looked at his watch, snapped the book shut and unceremoniously dumped it on the chair beside him. He was five minutes late for the next court hearing.


End file.
